Windrose is your guide to navigating life in your twenties through essays, advice, and interviews shared through our print magazine and blog community.

Categories

Apr 24 New Things, Better Things

It was just this past Friday morning. The sun was shining brightly through the living room bay window after what seemed a week of grey skies, the kind of skies that make you low-key sad regardless of whether or not your life is going well. The birds were singing their new songs of spring, flitting about in the blooming trees. A fuzzy teal Target blanket was draped over my lap, and I held between my hands a mug of hazelnut coffee, the steam curling up, catching the light.

“What I’m hearing is that you’re still mourning the loss of that moment,” said my roommate slash unpaid counselor from the couch opposite me, her own cup of coffee sitting on her lap.

It’s been a hell of a year, but in the very ordinary, nothing-too-tragic-has-occurred sense. You know, the kind of hell that has nothing to do with a death or an incurable illness or a divorce or an addiction, none of that. In fact, if you were to peer into the window of my life from the sidewalk a yard away, it would look to you like it’s been quite a rich year from last summer to the new one approaching us: adventures all around the country and even the world, a new job, a new house with a kitchen so beautiful it should be photographed and framed, a new kitten, by golly! So much new-ness. All good. Objectively, that is.

But I’ve been a mess through it all, a big ‘ole blumbering not-pretty-to-look-at, please-avert-your-eyes mess.

A fun fact about me: I like to keep a tidy house. I like things to go where they should go, the blanket to drape over the back of the couch in the most aesthetically-pleasing way. I like my books to stack on one another so that your eyes have to settle on them for a moment, admiring just how lovely they look on the dresser. I like fresh flowers on the counter and the TV remotes put away and the coasters in just the right spot on the coffee table. I make my bed every morning.

But I hate cleaning. I mean it, I hate, hate, hate cleaning. No part of me enjoys whipping out the Clorox wipes and bleach and getting on my knees and scrubbing away the water residue that has started building up on the shower. It’s a dirty process. It’s dadgum hard work. I try to avoid it until it’s absolutely necessary, and then while I’m doing it, I’m not a whistle-while-you-work kind of girl; I’m just trying to get the process over with.

At the beginning of last summer, my life was so tidy. I had just returned from a two-week trip to London, a trip so wonderful and perfect and perfect and perfect, and did I mention it was perfect? I was offered a new job, a job that for months I had been vying for; my career goals seemed to be slowly coming to fruition. I was developing new relationships, experiencing new things. And I was happy. Goodness gracious, was I happy.

And then, at the flick of fate’s ugly little wrist, my house of cards came tumbling down, and my facade of tidiness was removed, and I saw what gunk and grime and ickiness was in my life, was in me.

I saw what a mess I was, even though I had tried to keep everything so damn tidy. Oh, and I wasn’t happy anymore, in case that part isn’t obvious.

And I can imagine that’s when God clapped His hands together in glee and gathered His angel friends around Him and said, “Great! Now we can finally get to work cleaning this up!” He put a lot of emphasis on the “finally” part of that sentence, I’m fairly certain of it.

I did as poet Dylan Thomas would advise, and I certainly did not go gentle into that good night. Granted, I understand Thomas is referencing death. Obviously I didn’t die physically this past year, but a big part of me did die. I stopped being able to envision goals and dreams for myself; honestly, looking toward my future was painful, because to me, my future looked like the endless same of my present. And I was miserable in my present, though (as a reminder) for very ordinary, nothing-too-tragic-has-occurred reasons. I became like our favorite pirates in the third Pirates of the Caribbean, sailing about lost in Davy Jones’ locker with a map that makes absolutely no sense and with no idea how to make it back to the real world and with a dark sea stretching endlessly in all directions.

And from last summer to the new one creeping up on us, I kept longing for that old happiness I had felt. I longed for the old “glory days” of the first few months after graduation.

But then, on that sunny Friday morning, my roommate slash unpaid counselor reminded me of a point from Brene Brown’s excellent book, Rising Strong (please everyone go read it, you will be a better person afterward!). “You can’t go back,” my roommate slash unpaid counselor said. “Knowing what you know now, you can’t go back to that person that you were last summer.”

And then it clicked. I already knew that I could never go back to the circumstances surrounding that glorious few months of post-grad life—the girl typing away in a coffee shop on a Tuesday afternoon in a naive bliss about how she “doesn’t miss college”—and the even-more glorious start of last summer with all of its exciting new-ness. Though I knew I’d never return to those same circumstances from last year, what I had failed to realize was that in my heart these past ten months, I’ve been longing to return to who I was during those circumstances.

And I can’t do that. There’s no return to that person, to that happiness, to that hope. Because I’m not that person anymore. That part of me, that happiness, that hope has died away.

"The Road Not Taken" is one of my favorite poems, sitting in a frame on my bookshelf (and yes, it looks very, very tidy). In fact, my first post for this very blog was an ode to that poem. But there’s a line in that poem, an important line that somehow I’ve happened to overlook in my continuous readings of it.

“And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.”

“Yet knowing how way leads on to way / I doubted if I should ever come back.”

There it is, the BAM-look-at-this-TRUTH, tucked so neatly away into the piece. Frost knew what I had failed to realize for so long: way leads on to way; there’s no going back.

I’ve thought and prayed a lot about healing, a lot about redemption in the last several months. In my mind, healing meant returning to that person I was ten months ago, that happiness, that hope. I wanted redemption for the parts of me that had been lost. I wanted healing for the parts of me that had died away.

And then my roommate said those you-can’t-go-back words on that springtime Friday morning. The following day at Mass, I had a revelation while reading the book of Revelation (Ha! Good one, God!). “Behold, I am making all things new.”

New. THAT’S IT. That is the missing piece of this puzzle, this part of redemption and healing that I had been misunderstanding this whole time.

I thought healing meant returning to my former self without realizing that healing is quite literally the creation of something new. A wound doesn’t heal by repairing the dead cells; no, it creates entirely new cells to bind up the broken parts of you. I thought redemption meant a recreation of myself, when really redemption has always meant making me into a wholly new creation.

And then this morning, while reading Anne Lamotts’ book (love her), Help, Thanks, Wow, I came upon the line, “New is life.”

I’ve been so focused on mourning the death of my past self that I’ve closed my eyes to the new life being presented to me. All this time, with a heavy sigh I’ve been looking at my future through the lens of my past, swiping a filter over it and seeing it only in relation to the part of me I've lost. And with this rear view mirror perspective, I’ve been missing the hope that’s been sitting on the platter in front of me, like a plate of freshly-baked, gluten-free cookies going untouched because I’ve been too busy looking at the empty plate of cookies I finished months ago.

New is life.

We all know that the past is the past; that is just an obvious, time-bound concept that we have no choice but to accept. However, what I think many of us don’t realize is that we can’t return to who we once were in the past, either. We are ever-changing, hopefully growing into something more than what we’ve been before. I won’t be that girl writing about how she doesn’t miss college in a coffee shop on a Tuesday afternoon, because I now work a full-time job on Tuesday afternoons (and Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday afternoons, too). I won’t be that girl dreaming the same dreams as last summer, hoping for the same things as last summer. And you won’t be that person you were last year, either, dreaming your old dreams and wishing your old wishes and hoping your old hopes.

But while I’ve been so focused on returning to who I was last summer, I haven’t realized this whole time God’s been a wee busy at work within me. He’s been doing some deep cleaning, getting on His knees and scrubbing out the water residue in the shower, wiping down the counters, Swiffering the linoleum, cleaning out the smelly refrigerator, ridding me of my pride and my need to always, always be right and always, always be in control and always, always please other people, even to the detriment of my values. He’s been sweeping away my old, weak, I’ll-pray-when-I-think-about-it faith, and teaching me things I would’ve never known otherwise had I stayed wrapped in my bliss bubble. And if you’ll picture in your mind what it looks like to clean, you’ll know that it’s not a tidy process. The dirty water mop bucket’s sitting out, the trash is waiting by the door to be taken to the dumpster, the items that are normally placed so tidily on the counter have to be moved so that you can wipe it down, the books have to be un-stacked so you can dust the dresser. Cleaning is dadgum hard work. But it’s good work. It’s preparing me and you for something else, for something new.

Because up ahead—and today, even—there are new things, better things awaiting you and me. New dreams, better dreams. New happiness, better happiness. New hope, better hope. A new you, a new me. A better you, a better me.

I hesitate to end with this C.S. Lewis quote because Pinterest has effectively made it into a fluffy, free-for-all quote you pin to your “Inspiration” board then promptly forget about it. However, since C.S. is one of the wisest men to have ever walked this earth, I think it best to leave the conclusion to him.

Since taking that first step, I’ve made the trip back to speak in numerous classes and even at other events. Yes, the introvert in me still needs plenty of time to recover after public speaking. But every time I went back to campus, it got easier. With every step—every time I said “yes” when I wanted to say “no”—I gained momentum.

That’s another great thing about baby steps: every step you take builds momentum—stamina to keep going, strength for the journey.

In all seriousness, though, I felt like I had transported right back to where I was my senior year, caught in the in-between of trying to hold on so tightly to those last few months of my life as a student, and looking so forward to venturing out of it. But it brought back that old familiar, restless feeling—the same feeling I had when I got back from London, and when I first moved here—of wanting so many things and trying to figure out a way to make them all coexist.

Between stressing for Walter White’s father-of-the-year-campaign and my ambiguous job future, the happy hours continued. I have the utmost appreciation for these friends that took me out of my own darkness and enjoyed a beer or two. We treasured our three dollar drinks, our pita and chips, our half off cocktails, our half off wines, our chances to escape the pressures of “do you have a job yet?” and the looming student loan emails. The bitter hops of a summer ale washed away our problems, reminding us that if Emily Blunt and John Krasinksi found each other, we too can find jobs and futures that welcome us wholeheartedly.

Last winter, as I hid under a blanket and bemoaned the graveyard that is modern dating in the city of Nashville, Tennessee (where every boy is contractually obligated to include in his I-don’t-actually-want-a-relationship script: “But I think you’re really cool!”), I told Chelsey that we should just stop having expectations altogether. Because rarely are expectations met, so why bother having them in the first place? I figured I could protect myself from any future disappointment by kicking expectations out completely. Expect nothing, I argued to her.

Removed from the college bubble and re-planted in a new life, the field is wiped clean again. I have to again make a real, conscious decision about where I fit in and how I stack up. There seem to be metrics in place for who’s “winning” post-grad—high-power job? committed relationship? best apartment? coolest city?—but there’s no prize. New York is enormous, and social media is a daily tidal wave, and there have been days when I feel so small.

I recently went through a breakup. I felt like I was on a train going through a tunnel. I couldn’t see clearly. I couldn’t think clearly. There were no mountains or trees, just a steady presence of hurt and confusion.

Our deserts will look different—a job loss that flattens you, credit card debt that seems endless, a family drama that has yet to resolve, a breakup that breaks you, an addiction that controls you, a depression or an anxiety that plagues you. Deserts can look so much like a place of despair.

Typically, if I know something is going to be imperfect I will probably not do it. Or, the second something starts revealing its imperfections I dip out. Relationships, goals, Wednesday night yoga—if I am standing face to face with imperfection I will use it as an excuse to distance myself from whatever the thing is. Because if imperfection means failure, and failure means making a fool out of myself in front of the whole world that is obviously watching and judging my life (I’m looking at you, Yoga Wizard behind me at the 6pm Vinyasa class), I need to get out of Dodge before shame and the opinions of others get some pitch forks and angry-mob-style force me out.

Yesterday I challenged myself to take the entire day off—no work whatsoever, not even checking my email; social media, obviously, was a huge NOT TODAY SATAN. Laundry, errands, cleaning: a firm no. But from the moment I settled under my blanket on the blue chair with my coffee, I felt an intense urge to scrap this idea of no work and get busy anyways. It was as if my “no” to work suddenly ignited in me a rare motivation to straight-up OWN my to-do list. But my planner remained closed on my desk, taunting me with all the things I could be doing, all the progress I could be making. I had plans with friends later in the afternoon, but the whole morning was mine. What was I supposed to do if I couldn’t work?!

There are things about myself I wish I could change. Not in a dramatic, self-hatred kind of way: largely, I’m pretty happy. But there are habits and tendencies that I wish I could just shake off. I wish I was more disciplined, stuck at things when they’re hard. I wish I trusted my voice more. I wish I was more compassionate, went out of my way more to love people. I wish I went outside more and watched Netflix less.

Have you ever done that thing, where you see someone cute from across a room and before you’ve so much as exchanged names, you’ve pictured all the ways they’ll make you fall in love with them before they eventually break your heart, and then all of a sudden they’ve picked up their coffee and left the building before you even said hi? I am a master of that game.

Ally is a 2014 graduate of Belmont University in Nashville, the city she still calls home. She owns a cat named after C.S. Lewis and buys way too many concert and plane tickets and then writes about it. She believes London is the most magical city in all the world and will defend this position somewhat aggressively. She's a freelance writer for small businesses looking to build trust with potential clients through blog posts and web copy. Check out her music, travel and life musings on her blog, Maps & Mochas.

Ally is a 2014 graduate of Belmont University in Nashville, the city she still calls home. She owns a cat named after C.S. Lewis and buys way too many concert and plane tickets and then writes about it. She believes London is the most magical city in all the world and will defend this position somewhat aggressively. She's a freelance writer for small businesses looking to build trust with potential clients through blog posts and web copy. Check out her music, travel and life musings on her blog, Maps & Mochas.

Let's be friends.

We respect your privacy and do not share your email address with third parties outside of our email platform. By joining, you agree to receive weekly emails from Windrose. You can unsubscribe at any time.